Naomi Jaffa is perhaps best known
for her old job as Director of the Poetry Trust and driving force behind the
Aldeburgh Poetry Festival. However, she’s also a poet herself. I was dimly
aware of this fact, but Anthony Wilson’s recommendation of her recent pamphlet,
Driver, brought my interest into
focus. Of course, being contrary, I decided to begin exploring her work by
going back to the start and getting hold of her first chapbook, The Last Hour of Sleep, which was
published by Five Leaves back in 2003.
It’s a remarkable book. A detailing
of its qualities might theoretically provide insufficient insight, but there is
a definite usefulness in listing them, as its surprising juxtapositions and
delicately achieved combinations of theme and technique are key to any
understanding of The Last Hour of Sleep.
In Jaffa’s hands, the everyday becomes disturbing, the ordinary becomes
startling, bold expressions of sexuality become matter-of-fact, clear-cut emotions
become loaded with ambiguity, straightforward lines become complex.
The ending to “Weekend” provides one
such example:
“…That winter, another weekend,
holed-up beside a lake
in a log cabin in Jaffrey, New
Hampshire, you opted out
of our fantasy with us and your best
friend, Richard. I still wonder
what you felt looking down through
the banisters,
why you risked leaving us in front
of the fire, seeing
much too clearly what you were
missing.”
Such long lines are notoriously
difficult to pace and control, but Jaffa’s sense of cadence is surefooted here.
Moreover, her juggling of pronouns and prepositions is so clear and precise
that it almost goes unnoticed. And then there’s the incredibly skilled
manipulation of “risked”. Jaffa turns the verb on its head, making the reader
wonder just who was risking more, what they were risking, whether this piece
itself is a fantasy or reality. The poem’s feminine muscularity is striking.
The
Last Hour of Sleep is packed with such
instances of verbs being invested with fresh meanings, as in the following
extract from “Unrehearsed”:
“…When skin no longer breathes it
yellows and grows cold,
one-sided conversation soon runs
dry,
trousers stain and smell without
embarrassment.
Everything and nothing is too late…”
Of course, breathing wouldn’t
initially be associated with skin. However, Jaffa pulls off the achievement of
jolting the reader with this surprise before making it feel natural and
inevitable, thus reinvigorating and strengthening the verb’s power.
This extract also highlights Jaffa’s
deft use of juxtapositions. Not only is an everyday detail followed by the
invocation of abstracts but those two apparently opposing abstracts – nothing
and everything - are conflated and given the same quality.
The
Last Hour of Sleep is an exceptional
pamphlet. It goes without saying that I’ll be seeking out Driver as soon as possible, while a full collection from Naomi
Jaffa would be a thing of wonder.
